


Thicker Than Water

by Fandom_esque



Series: Fandoms? What are those? [2]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Blindness, Jesus heals the blind man with mud, John 9:1-12 (New International Version), Minor Injuries, Poems, poem format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:41:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29115429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fandom_esque/pseuds/Fandom_esque
Summary: The aftermath of when Jesus heals the blind man with mud.
Series: Fandoms? What are those? [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2155515
Kudos: 1





	Thicker Than Water

**Author's Note:**

> This is a poem I wrote for fun, and I don't think any of this actually happens. Enjoy!

I watched him sit down in his usual corner, watching the passing people. So different then the blank eyes he wore before. Gaze occupied by the colors on the fabrics of which they wore, however dull they may be. Ears were deaf to the whispered tones people were using as they passed him. He didn’t see the children being rushed passed him by their mothers. Didn’t see the Rabbis observing him, he didn’t listen to what they were preaching about him, didn’t feel the apprehension that people now regarded him with. How the name Celidonius was now thrown about with slander.

The day before last I was slipping a pear into the diminutive hand of a frail woman, and I saw him staring enviously at two children. I puzzled over why, until I saw what they were doing. Holding a book between them, sounding out letters and words, giggling when they got it right. Last week I showed him the produce I usually sell, letting him put an image to the fruits he only knew by name.

Sometimes I see him staring into the mud that gathers on the edges of the market when it rains, leaning down to inspect the pooling water. He asks what color it is. I tell him brown. 

We walk on a path that has been worn down beside the crops, and smile when he ogles two ladybugs flying. Two little carnelian specs against a vibrant backdrop of azure. His gaze is captivated when I trip and scrape my knee. He stared in fascination at the welling blood as I hastily tried to stop the bleeding. Later he tells me that red is his favorite color.

I leave him standing on the edge of the Siloam, staring into the sun. His eyes are red the next day, and he tells me that everything is blurry. His tone is scared. 

As the moons pass, I observe how he grows accustomed to having vision. There are moments when he conceals his eyes from the harsh sunlight; instinctively reaches for someone's face as if to trace it before dropping trembling fingers, and I know he isn’t used to his new life yet. And yet with each passing day, with the tales of his savior growing all the more fabled and poisonous, I wonder. Throwing him into the world of sight with such abruptness, did he do him a favor or did he rip away the only way my friend knew how to live, condemning him to a fate of startling confusion and subtle revelations?


End file.
